by Delia Ephron
“I have a headache.” I close the door.
I start rummaging in my purse, scrounging for a Benadryl, an Actifed, something that will knock me out. It’s like the bottom of a garbage heap, this purse. I locate a naked Certs, a few Tic Tacs, some dirty pennies. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror across the room. I look like a blotchy little ferret, digging madly. But then I find it. An antihistamine that will put me to sleep and clear up my sinuses, which, God knows, need it. I swallow it dry and throw myself on the bed.
Why did I lie to Jesse? Why do I feel guilty? I didn’t invite Ogmed to visit. Should I feel guilty because, while having a fantasy about a man, I end up involved with his mother?
I move over on the bed sideways, leaving room for Joe as if he were here. I wrap my arms around the pillow. Joe does not need to know.
“Mom?” I hear Jesse’s voice through the door.
“What?”
“Don’t get mad at me for asking, but the mechanic called. My car’s fixed. Can we go over later?”
The car. I have to tell Joe about the car.
“Mom?”
“I don’t think so. Not today. I don’t feel well. I’m going to sleep.”
The phone rings. What time is it? What day? I look at the clock, which glows in the dark. Nine. I slept six hours. The phone keeps ringing. It’s Joe. For sure, it’s Joe, calling back. I have to tell him about the car.
I force my eyes wide open. I shake my head as if to settle the mess inside. I use my cheeriest voice. “Hello?”
“Eve, it’s Angie.”
“Yes?”
“Your father … Well, we thought he was being a clam.”
“Yes?”
“But I poked him.”
“And?”
“It seems he’s in a coma.”
I am racing from one room to another. “Where’s my purse? Would you help me look, would you please help me look? Oh God, I’m carrying it.” I open the closet. What am I doing here? What do I need? A jacket, right, I need a jacket. “Jesse,” I yell, “are you ready?”
“I’m right here,” he says quietly. I almost collide with him coming out of his bedroom.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Marks,” says Ifer, as they follow me down the stairs, “but is he dead? It’s okay if he is, I just have to prepare myself if I’m going to see him dead.”
“You are not going to see him at all.” I open the door and virtually march down the front walk to the car.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Marks, but—”
I spin around. “Jesse’s grandfather is dying now, Ifer—”
“I know, but—”
“What?”
“You’re getting into the wrong car.”
“Whose car is this?”
“I don’t know,” says Jesse. “It’s just a car that’s parked on the street. Mom, I think it would be better if you let me drive.” He puts his hand out for the keys.
I open my purse and start hunting around. “I can’t find them.” I burst into tears. “I can’t find anything anymore.”
“It’s understandable,” says Ifer, taking my purse and handing me Buddha. “Your daddy’s dying.”
“You’re very upset today,” says Jesse.
“No.” I cry harder. “I’m like this every day.”
Ifer hands Jesse the keys, takes the cat, and returns my purse.
“I want this cat out of the house,” I weep.
“Okay,” says Ifer agreeably. She gets into the backseat with the cat.
“I don’t want to ride with the cat.”
“Mom,” says Jesse. “You are really bonkers. I think you should get in the car.”
We ride along in silence. “Don’t talk,” I say after a few minutes.
“Could I ask one tiny thing?” Ifer leans over the front seat so her chin is resting on my shoulder.
“No.”
“Is he in a coma?”
“I think so, yes.” There is a pause.
“Could I say one more thing?”
“No.”
“Maybe we should talk to him. Tell him it’s okay to die and everything. Well, not me, because I don’t know him, but maybe you.” She rolls her head to the side so she is peeking up at me. “I wish I knew him, ’cause he was Jesse’s grandpa.”
“He used to be really nice.”
“When?” asks Jesse.
“I don’t know. Just sometimes. Like when I was getting over this love affair with this stupid guy that I thought I might marry. He said, In marriage, you can exist without love, but never without like.”
“Wow,” says Ifer. For emphasis, she throws herself against the back of the seat. “‘Never without like.’ That’s cool.”
“Where’s your father, Ifer?”
“He lives in San Francisco. I visit him like for holidays and stuff. My good old dad,” she intones. “He’s my best friend.”
I start crying again.
“That’s a McDonald’s commercial,” she adds. “‘My good old dad, he’s my best friend.’ You know, you should probably burn sage in his room. Sprinkle it around his bed. To get rid of evil spirits. Kasmians do that.”
I turn around. “Ifer, I swear to God, if you say one more word, I’m throwing you out the window.”
Ifer screams.
Jesse smashes into the car in front of us.
“It’s not my fault.”
That’s the first thing I hear. Then, through the windshield, I see a man slam out of his car and start shouting. “You shit. You stupid shit.”
Jesse leaps out. “It’s your fault,” he shouts back.
Ifer pushes the seat forward with me in it so she can squeeze out too. “It is your fault, Mister, I saw it all,” she claims.
I start checking my body to verify that I’m still in one piece. Then I look out at Jesse and Ifer yelling at the man. He’s pointing to his car, which I notice is brand-new. It doesn’t even have plates. In the rectangle where the license plate belongs, it says “Wilshire Lexus.”
Jesse has left his door wide open, in the middle of Pico Boulevard. “Hey, close the door.” He doesn’t hear. He’s going to have another accident. He’s rear-ended someone and now our door is going to be knocked off too. I lean across the seat and pull the door closed. Then I get out.
“We’re taking my mother to the hospital,” Jesse is saying. “My grandpa’s dying.”
“There’s a stop sign right here.” The man points. The sign is partially hidden by a palm tree.
“Huh, when did that get there?”
“It’s always been there.”
“It has not!”
“I never saw it,” says Ifer.
I inspect the cars. Our grill is destroyed. There’s no damage to the other car, not even a dent in the bumper. “There’s no damage,” I say.
“There might be inside,” says the man. “It could have internal injuries.”
“There’s no way a car has internal injuries if it has no external injuries. It’s not a person.” I start crying again. It comes as a total shock to me. Tears are streaming down my face, and yet I’m speaking normally. I would be absolutely certain that I’m not crying, except there are so many tears I can taste them.
“My mom is very upset,” says Jesse. He puts his arm around me.
The man takes a beat to glare at us, to make us feel really low. Then he gets in his car and drives away.
“What a jerk,” says Jesse.
“You rear-ended him. It’s your fault.”
“I didn’t know he was going to stop. Jeez, how did I know? That stop sign’s never been there before.”
“Just forget it and let’s go.”
We get back in the car. “Wait,” says Ifer.
“What now?”
“Is Buddha in front with you?”
“No.”
“Where’s Buddha?” She starts bawling.
“Adrienne, are you awake?”
“Oh God, your father died.”
“No. He’s unconscious but s
tabilized. They’re keeping an eye on his kidneys. I talked to the doctor on the phone and that’s what he said. ‘I’m keeping an eye on his kidneys,’ as if his kidneys might disappear when the doctor wasn’t looking. Like Buddha.”
“Who?”
“Ifer’s cat. I spent the entire night searching for it. I never reached the hospital, and the cat was under the car the whole time. Thank God, because the last thing I want is to attend a cat funeral.”
“Eve.”
“What?”
“You’re not making much sense.”
“That’s because I haven’t been to sleep. It’s four-thirty in the morning, which makes it seven-thirty in New York, so I assumed you’d be awake.”
“Yeah. Paul and I are going running. Where’s Joe?”
“Still in Montana with the moose lady. I can’t fall asleep. I know the minute I do, the phone will ring and he’ll be dead.”
“But you said he’s stabilized.”
“We’re not talking rational here, Adrienne.”
“I know, I’m sorry.”
“I can’t even locate Georgia, and I spoke to her this afternoon. She’d closed the issue. Where is she? We should discuss extraordinary measures, not that we’ll take any, he’s hardly got a brain, but Ogmed was right, he’s dying. Georgia should come out.”
“She’s on her way to Paris.”
“What? Are you serious?”
“Who’s Ogmed?”
“How do you know about Ogmed?”
“You just mentioned her.”
“I did? She’s just someone I know. How do you know Georgia’s going to Paris?”
“I had a meeting with her a few days ago, and she told me she was going there as soon as the anniversary issue closed.”
“You two had a meeting? I thought you couldn’t stand Georgia.”
“Actually she’s pretty smart.”
“Why’d you have a meeting?”
“She saw my cartoon ‘Memory Helper.’ Do you remember it? That’s not a joke.”
“No, I really don’t.”
“It was done like an advertisement for a telephone service: ‘Can’t remember the name of your best friend’s mother? Dial Memory Helper.’”
“Can’t remember the name of a short, blonde, wide movie star with bangs?”
“I put that in.”
“You did? You didn’t ask me if you could.”
“I never ask. What were you going to do with it?”
“That’s not the point. Forget it. It’s no big deal. So why’s Georgia in Paris?”
“She said she was going for a short vacation, and when she gets back we’ll talk about my working regularly—”
“What?”
“A monthly cartoon for her magazine … and we’ll all have dinner—me, Paul, what’s her boyfriend’s name, that shrink?”
I don’t answer.
“Eve?”
Some big emotion has rolled in from somewhere, a yawning, huge wave of sadness, and if I try to speak, it will flatten me.
“Eve, are you upset that I might work for Georgia? … Eve?”
“I was just … I was trying to remember his name. Stephen—that’s it.” The more I talk, the easier it becomes. “I haven’t even met him, neither has Madeline. So you’re all having dinner?”
“I’m sure she’ll forget about it.”
“When is she planning to come out here, did she say that? Is she ever planning to come out here?”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh … Well, it’s great you’re going to work together. I mean, that’s fantastic, Adrienne. Congratulations.”
“It’s not for sure yet.”
“Still, it’s great.”
“We’ll see. Who’s Ogmed?”
“Just someone who’s been really there for me while this has been going on with my father. She’s been really supportive and really helpful.”
“What kind of a name is that?”
“I have no idea. I’ve got to go to sleep. I’ve got this big event at the Nixon Library.”
“Today? But you’re beat. Your father’s dying.”
“I have to go.”
“Eve, Kim can take care of it. She’s been your assistant forever.”
“There’s no way I can’t show up. And if I don’t get some sleep, I’ll look terrible.”
“What do you care? It’s just a bunch of ear, nose, and throat doctors.”
“Right.”
“Let me know how it goes.”
“What?”
“Your dad, what else? Is there something else?”
“No, of course there’s nothing else.”
I hang up. I lie there. The phone is lying right next to me. Of course, it’s not, really. It’s on the night table, but I feel like we’re in bed together. I roll over on my side and stare at it.
Now I turn onto my stomach and inch up the mattress to the top so I can peek down at the telephone cord, snaking its way along the wall behind the bed to where it hooks into the little gray phone box. I reach down behind the bed. It feels daring. It feels practically revolutionary. I squeeze the plastic doohickey on the end of the phone cord. It comes right out.
I get up and pull on my robe. I walk into my study to kill the telephone there, then downstairs to unplug the living room phone and Joe’s rotary model. I deactivate the kitchen phone by prying it off the wall with a screwdriver.
Back to my bedroom. I snuggle under the covers. I lie there in the quiet that is not going to be shattered by the ring of the telephone, where there will be no news unless I want to hear it. I can feel my body sink into the mattress. It’s possible I’m relaxing. It’s possible, but the feeling’s not familiar so I can’t be sure.
Nine
When Jesse was little, Georgia sent him a toy touch-tone executive telephone. A battery inside made it light up in the dark, and in addition to Speaker Phone and Redial, it had two Hold buttons. It was more elaborate than our real phones. Joe was using a black rotary-dial model for aesthetic reasons.
We had been married almost eight years and were living in West Los Angeles. Unlike my childhood neighborhood of winding hilly streets, where we lived was flat, blocks laid on a boring horizontal-vertical grid. But Joe and I loved our house. It was old, Spanish style, with thick stucco walls, tile floors, curved arches, and cool rooms. We frequented flea markets for old rugs, pine furniture, and slipcovered couches and chairs where one could either feel the springs or sink so low that getting up and out required firm commitment. We owned nothing without heart, like matching smart upholstered items or wall-to-wall carpeting. A woman could never go loco here, I assured myself, the way my mother did.
In the backyard, we had a palm tree where a parrot lived. Every morning Jesse would run outside and squawk at the parrot, and from high up in the tree, the parrot would squawk back. This was Jesse’s favorite thing to do until the telephone came, a week before his fifth birthday.
I remember because it was the day Joe’s first grant came through.
“Only fifteen thousand?” Georgia had said puzzled, when I called whooping and cheering, after parking Jesse in front of the TV to watch the Smurfs.
“But you don’t understand,” I explained. “It’s a travel grant from the NEA. Joe can do his interviews all over the country now. National Public Radio is picking up his show.”
I called Maddy and then Adrienne to complain about Georgia’s reaction, hung up, and went to meet Joe, who had arrived home with champagne.
“They all say congratulations,” I announced as he popped the cork. I covered my eyes. “You never know where these corks will fly, especially now when we are ecstatic. It would be just like one of them to hit one of us in the eye.”
“You probably think rice is dangerous too,” said Joe.
“It can get stuck in your ear.”
“Exactly. You think the world is full of newlyweds who had to cancel their honeymoons because they had rice in their ears.” He kissed me, taking his long,
slow time. The first time he had given me a kiss this light and sweet and tender, under a streetlamp on Fifth Avenue, I knew I was in love. He was taking so much care for a single kiss, so much care for me.
The phone rang.
We stopped kissing and stared at it. “Who needs this,” he said, picking it up. “Hello?” He handed over the receiver. “Some people always call when you’re really happy or really busy,” he said, by way of telling me who it was.
“Hi, Dad.”
“If I have to hear one more goddamn thing about Raymond …” my father said.
“Ha. I knew you were talking about me.” Claire suddenly materialized on another extension.
“Get off the phone,” he barked at her.
“Do you want me to handle him?” Joe asked.
I shook my head. “Dad, calm down. I’m not going to talk to you guys if you’re going to fight.”
“Tell the lady to get off,” my father said.
“I live here,” said Claire. I could hear her pull herself up in that alcoholic way—that move in which a person suddenly stands straighter, gets regal, I suppose plays sober.
Joe bent down, lowering his head so it was right in front of mine and I couldn’t miss it. “I can take care of this for you.”
I waved him away. “Don’t you think you could be a little more tolerant, Dad?”
“Your dad’s a drug addict,” said Claire.
“Well, sometimes you drink too much.”
“Just when I’m with him. He’s a hack, anyway. You’re a hack, Lou. Raymond was an artist. An artist and a saint.”
At that moment the doorbell rang and Joe went to answer it. I carried the phone into the front hallway so I could see who was there—the UPS man. Joe offered him some champagne.
“Your daughter never calls you,” Claire told my father.
“Claire, he calls me all the time. That’s why I don’t call him.”
“Not you,” she said. “The editor in chief.”
Which is what Georgia was now. It had happened the year before. Editor in chief of Harper’s Bazaar at thirty-six. “This is some sort of record,” she had proclaimed. “Although with all these yuppies around, people are being promoted younger and younger, so perhaps it’s not a record.”
“They put Georgia in People magazine this week,” said my father.
“‘They put Georgia in People magazine this week,’” Claire imitated him.